


Kiss and Control.

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent, F/F, Freakytits - Freeform, Slow Burn, soft angst, what are timelines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 01:32:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9575927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: The four times they didn't kiss and the one time they did.





	1. Unum

**Author's Note:**

> The title was inspired by AFI's Kiss & Control. This work will be five chapters long and the chapters will be fairly short since it's a take of that ' five times kissed ' meme I've seen flit around the net. It'll be canon divergent/my own spin on a few scenes featuring Joan and Vera. There's no direct timeline either. Naturally, the last chapter will have a scene not involved in the show: the big kiss. ; )

_' Part your lips a bit more,_  
I'll swallow your fear.  
I will show you how. '

AFI, Kiss & Control

Dinner feels terribly impersonal tonight. Vera Bennett doesn't know why she bothered to come. Perhaps it was the forceful manner in which Joan spoke. The ' _What? Have you any other plans?_ ' remains a hollow echo within the deputy's head and it's even more hollow inside her soul. Rather than sitting on the opposite end, she intended on giving the Governor a piece of her mind. Instead, she chews stiffly. The bandage covering her neck cannot cover the wound on her heart.

A table separates them now and it will separate them again in the future.

On the other hand, Ferguson views this home-cooked meal as a means to control. After the riot, she realized that Vera's trust was slipping. Waning from her fingers like grains of sand. That simply would not do.

“--But I do believe we share a common philosophy.”

Conversation comes out forced. A crippling silence manifests itself. They chew and they swallow, a sips of wine in between to cleanse their palettes.

“ _Stop_.”

Vera stares like a woman scorned, her fingers trembling with a poorly concealed rage. Joan reaches out, slight hesitation evident in her fluid yet graceful movement. She squeezes that pale hand that's seen too much trauma. Their fingers fall together, piece by piece in a puzzle paradigm. Joan strokes bare skin with a thumb pad. She did the same to Jianna once.

Once.

It takes every ounce of self-restraint to stop from placing a feather light kiss upon Vera's knuckles, but she imagines it. Imagines that impossibility becoming a frightening possibility. Her mouth opens and closes, akin to a goldfish gasping for air. There's a pain in her chest when she dwells on the necessary evil of throwing her deputy to the dogs. It's always for the greater good.

“I have Hep C.”

Vera hardly sounds herself. Hardly looks herself these days. Her curly hair's down, a wild and untamed mane. Tight-lipped, she quivers. She falls victim to emotions and Joan pities (envies) her for it. There's something liberating and feminine about feelings, but to Joan, it's taboo.

Painfully aware, she retracts her touch. Twists the napkin in her hand, eager to scrub away the proverbial stain that marks her fingertips. She can't wash away the disease. She can't wash away this vast, growing distance between them. Once lost, trust cannot be gained again.

Vera finds herself incapable of forgiving. It's not something you can forget. This foolish, girlish daydream fantasy is crushed by stone cold reality. She wears a wounded smile, the fire in her eyes bright and dismal. With a shake of her head, she expected more. She pushes away from the table and wonders if a kiss to the hand would make it all better. Would reel her back into Joan's web.

It won't.

And that's why she sobs in her car while Joan sits alone, numb and expressionless despite the weakness that hollows out her chest.

  
  


 


	2. Duo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't very productive today, but at least I was able to crank out two parts!

A table separates them yet again.

Joan Ferguson's freedom is a short lived thing.

But it's replaced by a frigid, small room where Vera feels dwarfed again by Ferguson's presence.

Vera finds herself harder these days. Colder, but it's a practical sort of cold if you're to survive in Wentworth. Softness, as Meg Jackson, kindly tolder her was a weakness. Perhaps she even has Joan to thank for her evolution. She was her mentor, after all.

The Freak, as the other inmates call her, stands with a quiet, unwavering pride. She's stiff in the interrogation room, stiffer in the room designated specifically for strip searches. The napkin sails from her grip to Vera's. It's a common courtesy that lingers for one, long painful moment. When Governor Bennett accepts that handkerchief, she tucks it into her breastpocket where it burns against her chest. Her jaw tightens.

“Remove your clothing.”

She abides by duty, pretending to forget all that transpired. It's better this way. _For the greater good_ and that's where Vera and Joan's thoughts intersect, bleeding together into a single entity. The mouse keeps her chin up, pretending to be bigger than the cat that regards her with a glacial mirth.

“Take it off _now_. Turn around.”

There's a growing sense of urgency sullying her tone. The knife-like edge produces a horrible tension. Joan's not smiling anymore. She's well acquainted with this process, having conducted it a thousand times prior. On the other side, it dictates a loss of control. The upperhand a lost cause. Still, she strives to empower herself.

First, the prison trousers. They pool around her ankles. Then, the jacket. It unzips with a loud ripping sound. Afterwards, her knickers and bra. They lay in a lifeless clump by her feet. She would prefer to fold each article and place it in a uniform pile on the table though Vera doesn't grant her this mercy. The small chaos on the ground irks Joan. Her fingers twitch when she pulls the hairtie out and slips it over her wrist. Silver threads through the veil of darkness. There's a vulnerability with letting your hair down.

This is so very clinical, but the sight makes Vera's mouth run dry. Her eyes are wide, betrayaing the stone facade she desperately tried to project. The bruises and lacerations endured by the hand of Juice's crew form a vivid, agonizing picture. At a loss, her lips part. Diamond eyes trace black and blue and red. So much red.

_I should have placed you in protective custody. I should have protected you. I should have--_

The dreadful ' should haves ' always dwarf a person, crippled by the afflictions of the heart. Vera's shoulders stiffen. Statuesque, Joan remains standing. All she has left is her plots, her plots, and biding her time until she moves the next chess piece.

Vera wishes she could have kissed the bruises, but her own mother taught her that kisses heal nothing.

 


	3. Tribus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was out socializing with the family, but a few glasses of wine always serves for perfect inspiration. So, here I am!

_Drinks._

The word, alone, imbues Deputy Governor Vera Bennett with a childish glee. She means to decline. To say no outright with excuses of an imaginary man in her life or caring for her mother (the more bitter truth), but nothing comes to mind. She falters and ultimately bends to the will of the Fixer. Out of habit, she chews on her bottom lip. Drives her teeth through like a young girl experiencing a crush for the first time or finally – **finally** – having a friend.

When she arrives, she expects the bitter pangs of rejection. A proverbial slap in the face and it's almost received. The Governor seems to toy with her, akin to a cat slapping around a little mouse. Joan Ferguson remains invested in her work, the paperwork never-ending. She issues the existential demands: ' _What are you here for?_ '

Drinks and socialization seems to be too obvious of an answer.

Yet, it's the right one.

One might deem Ferguson frigid; her persona would indicate as much. Vera's intimidated by her, but desperate to know the woman beneath the layers of ice. For Joan, it's a matter of identifying weakness. Vodka and soda water proves to be a lethal combination. The Governor can hold her own, given her impressive statue. The smaller the woman, however, the more prone they are to the alcohol coursing through their system. During this infamous debriefing scene, it begins with idle talk about work. Work delves into past history and thoughts of Fletch infect Vera's mind. These thoughts shift towards a conversation about trust.

Two women in the field of correctional services seldom find the time to socialize outside of work. It's a common habit to become close with your co-workers. To know their woes, their sorrows, their happiness, their drive. Still, Governor Ferguson remains a brick wall. Unreadable.

By now, the alcohol's hit Vera. She falls into a warm, fuzzy haze. Her cheeks are red. She chews her lips and unfastens the tight bun that produces such a colossal amount of pressure. Joan does the same. Vera finds herself mesmerized by the gesture. Thick waves frame that wizened face perfectly. It makes her feel something. Words cannot describe that bubbly feeling. She laughs in response. Laughs to reject her feelings that stew and brew.

How nice it feels to let your hair down.

There's an open vulnerability to the gesture.

While they chit chat, Vera realizes that she could drown in those eyes. Their depth is too vast for her to comprehend. It's a dark glimmer comparable to the ocean. She smiles shyly, her face lowered. An errant curl slips free from her messy bun. Joan watches her, focused on the pretty bow of Vera's lips. They stare too long like strangers at a train station meeting at the wrong moment.

But maybe it's the alcohol.

The sensation of floating on cloud nine.

It's gotten too late into the night. Neither of them can afford to stay holed up in the Governor's office. Joan's looking at her in a way she's accustomed to. Predator assessing prey. A lonely soul eager to devour another. Vera blames the alcohol. Joan amounts it to gaining intel; perhaps more though more seldom blossoms from a fleeting thing like _this_ – this nameless thing.

With a purposeful stride, Governor Ferguson leads Vera towards the exit. Lingering in the doorframe, she stares down at the brunette who falters. Both of them feel heated despite how cold they've been all this time. Joan's dark eyes trace the dip and curve of Bennett's collarbone. That's how you commit art to memory.

“Good night, Vera.”

Her silken tone oozes self-confidence. When she speaks, a corner of her mouth curls into a half-smirk. Parentheses form around her glossy lips; the faintest semblance of laughter lines: the necessary accumulation of age. She expects her soon-to-be _**protégé**_ to cower and scamper off. After all, Vera Bennett is a desperately _lonely_ woman and the more desperate the woman, the more malleable they are.

Indeed, Vera pays her respect in a soft, airy tone. She half-expected a good night kiss, but she's not disappointed. Hope stirs the heat in her chest, the lasting impression in her heart when she leaves the Governor's office that evening. When she leaves, Joan watches the soft, muscled curve of her back. A faint smile hurts her cheeks.

Vera brings her hand to her chest, choosing to ignore the sensation.

 


	4. Quattuor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you ever just listen to "Ultraviolence" & cry? Because I do. One last chapter of angst before the last chapter features that fated kiss.

In many ways, Joan's office acts as a sanctuary. These four walls represent Governor Ferguson's absolute control. She controls the paperwork, the shift rotations, the profiles, the cameras that pan in and out of each cell block. Here, she reigns as puppet master.

This drive for control is shattered in an instant when she unlocks the door. Key and lock form a rhythmic click and she stands in the entrance, hit by an unseen force. A ghost on repeat conceals the walls and windows.

It's a face Joan painfully remembers.

Like Saint Sebastian, she feels the spiteful arrow digging into her side, burrowing underneath her ribs. The agony flares and spreads. Infects her chest – her heart until the muscle shudders and contracts. She gapes. She gawks. She stares and is seemingly rendered stupefied by the atrocity that was a personal attack towards her.

Joan ignores her father's voice, loud and deafening in her ear drums. It's Ivan who speaks in the background, repeating her mantra: _emotion leads to weakness._

Emotion: she lets out a feral sound, half-way between a sob and a scream. Leads: her polished heels trudge across the floor, their gleam malevolent with the theatrical dance of the lights. To: gloved hand scramble to pry away the pictures one by one. Weakness: she wants to burn these material possessions, but finds that she cannot. So, they suffocate her, crushed against her chest.

And it's in the lair of the beast that Vera finds herself.

“Guv'na...”

Deputy Bennett trails off, uncertain, as she lingers in the door frame. She's never seen this composed woman so... unraveled. It was _unnatural_.

Out of habit, Vera chews on the inside of her cheek. This is different compared to the crisis scenarios you roleplay in case an inmate gets testy. This is different, because it's personal. She wants nothing more than to console the older woman, to rest a gentle hand on her strong upper arm, but she's frozen.

The Governor slams the images onto her desk with a loud, impressive thud. Again and again to command attention, to instill fear. She must gain the upperhand against her enemy – her enemy being Vera in this newly found betrayal.

Accusations, bearing the result of fabricated evidence, fling from her lips. Harsh and angry, over enunciated so that each word is as sharp as a knife. The frantic dance of Jianna's photograph, waved in Joan's clenched fist, foretells of her sanity that dances across that thin line.

“You have me mistaken. I would-- I would never do this to you.”

An edge creeps into Vera's tone, accompanied by a soft “you have to believe me” that matches the desperate, watery look of her sea blue eyes.

She draws in, an arm outstretched to close the gaping distance between them. Though she's of a slight build, she wishes she could help Joan. To wrap her arms around her, to kiss the crown of her head in a consoling way – the kind that says a “sorry for your loss” but is a soft, unspoken thing.

And the Governor cannot afford to let another one in.

Her weakness killed Jianna. Delusions serve as a coping mechanism. As of now, Vera has become an enemy, coveting for the chair and not the rightful place by her side.

You can only rely on yourself, Joan concludes with burning, red-rimmed eyes that fight back the salty sting of tears.

That evening, a shotgun named Fletch took out trust.

Instead of a kiss, Vera tastes the fury of a slap.

Her cheek's been branded and she stands there, as empty as the woman before her.

 


	5. Quinque

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the kiss that deviates from canon. What we wish could have happened in between the lines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was reading a few interviews about Pam Rabe's and Kate Atkinson's opinions regarding the relationship between Vera and Joan. Pretty interesting stuff, if I do say so myself!

There's a sense of liberty achieved in freeing yourself of one burden that weighs you down and makes you choke. Now, Vera feels the cathartic release from letting her mother go. The guilt nags at the back of her head, remaining a constant sinking sensation in her chest. It hurts, but she finally learns how to breathe on her own. How to live. How to simply be.

It's exquisite.

The doorbell rings and she detaches herself from the cardboard boxes around Rita Bennett's room. Vera has categorized everything into piles: what to keep, what to donate, what to throw away. There's a strange sort of detachment in sorting someone else's belongings. She puts her mother's memory into boxes and bags, but the persistent knock at the door allows her to forget about it.

With a soft smile, she answers.

“Hello--? _Oh_. Guv'na. Fancy seeing you there.”

Her eyes widen before returning to their normal size. Shadows linger underneath them. Maybe now, without her mother's screaming, she can rest. The rest is never peaceful, always with a guilt, but she's learning to harden her heart. Perhaps she has Joan to thank for that.

“Won't you invite me in, Vera?”

Her lips, accentuated by a hint of nude gloss, curve into a bemused smirk. Tonight, she's taken to wearing earthen colors. Her hair tousled in just the right ways. Inside and outside of Wentworth, Joan puts care into her appearance. Vera feels the opposite, a complete mess in a plum-colored sweater two sizes too large and her hair thrown back into a sloppy bun. As though she's in a daze, she stares. Her staring is accompanied by a delayed nod while she stands aside.

“Forgive the mess. I've been sorting out business since Mum's... passing.”

There's a strained smile when she says it. Inside, Vera's screaming, overjoyed to be rid of the one thing that's held her back for so many years.

“Nonsense. It is nothing I cannot handle. A home makes a statement about a person, after all. I'm certain you've found some order in the chaos,” Joan drawls. “I brought you a gift.”

Straying from the shiraz she preaches, Governor Ferguson holds up a black bottle of chianti. A rich red that shocks the senses and goes well with select cuts of meets. Vera prefers white; it's softer and delicate, much like herself. Maybe even a bit vanilla, but the bland taste is what helps her swallow down numerous glasses.

“A gift for yourself?” Vera teases, finding her voice after all this time.

Joan makes a beeline for the kitchen, setting the bottle on the counter. It's amazing how quickly the older woman takes control of the situation. She searches the cabinets for two glasses. Wipes them with a clean linen until they suit her standards.

“I suppose though expanding your palette would work wonders for you, my dear.”

Surrendering, Vera shakes her head. Though it's her own home they're in, she hardly feels like the hostess. Resigned, she sinks onto the sofa that's lived in this house for twenty years. The cushions are well-worn, but taken care of. Moments later, Joan reappears with the glasses. The bottle follows.

They sit on opposite ends of the couch, a single cushion serving as a makeshift barrier between them. Joan Ferguson does not issue apologies or condolences. Nor does she provide comfort to women stuck in the hollow frame of young girls searching for mother figures.

“Indulge, Vera. You deserve this. To your new life.”

Vera reaches for the glass that's filled to the brim rather than halfway. Her hand hesitates, still a mouse in the cat's cradle. Their glasses clink in a musical fashion though she repeats the words, sounding empty after all the grief.

“To my new life.”

Her relief ebbs and flows like the tide.

It's not what she imagined it to be.

The Governor sips from the Devil's cup, the red wine coating her tongue. The taste lingers on her lips that she wets after a moment's pause. To know thy enemy is to know thyself. She thinks that she knows Vera from the inside out, akin to origami that's been folded and refolded again. She knows the creases of her deputy's personality, but the woman is changing into something. Evolving into someone else. Someone better.

Stronger.

It's an emotional strength that Ferguson cannot connect to, try as she might.

You can control a person in the way you touch them. There's a comforting touch intentionally placed on her knee. Joan's thumb works in slow, soothing circles. Vera's mouth runs dry. It's a small gesture, one that she finds herself leaning into.

She doesn't cry anymore. The tears stopped the day of Rita's funeral. Nor does she make an attempt to hold onto Joan, her blue eyes wandering down to the hand on her leg that moves like clockwork. It's a means of placating her and it's working.

Vera drains half the glass. On an empty stomach, the wine affects her far more quickly than she anticipated. Her head swims as her throat tightens. Ever in control of her appetite, Joan sips here and there. She sets it down with a clink. Smiles that enigmatic smile that says both everything and nothing.

Time slows to a crawl. Joan grips her by the jaw. Vera's breath hitches. Thumb and forefinger pinch Vera's lower jaw. The sharp sting forces her lips apart. Heat flutters and fans across her chest. The force of the grip softens. Joan thumbs her pulse, feeling the steady hum of her heartbeat.

“I like to know what makes a person tick,” Joan muses in an objective way.

Despite the vulnerability of her position, Vera bites.

She speaks.

“What makes me tick, Joan?”

The little mouse furrows her brows, a glimmer in her eyes while her head rolls back to expose the smooth column of her neck. She flicks out her tongue to wet her chapped lips. Joan seems to know the answer (oh, she does; she knows everything), but doesn't tell.

Answer: A foolish longing for love.

The Governor's breath fans across her parted mouth. Vera could pull away. Could push her off. Could excuse herself. Could show Joan the door. She does know of these things. Teases out the moment, because this is _her_ metamorphosis. It's her moment.

The real answer: Emotions.

Vera's eyes widen though she doesn't budge.

Joan kisses her. It feels slow and never-ending, a timelessness that promises a deadly spark. It's Joan's mouth that pries open Vera's like a gift. It's Joan's lips she tastes. Joan's teeth that scrape her pretty mouth. Joan's kiss that fades into a peck even though it's devoured her whole.

They say nothing.

Somehow, that says everything.

 


End file.
